Aryan reached home just past 9:30 p.m.
The hallway light was flickering again — it had been doing that for weeks now, but neither he nor his mother had gotten around to fixing it. The building was old. Walls thin. Stairs creaked like they remembered every footstep.
He unlocked the door quietly.
Inside, the apartment was small. Just a narrow kitchen, a living room that doubled as his bedroom, and the one real bedroom his mother used.
Her shoes weren't by the door.
She was still working.
Aryan ran a hand through his hair and exhaled softly.
The TV remote was exactly where it always was. Even in her absence, the house felt the same — organized, quiet, a little tired.
He heated the food in silence.
His mother worked the late shift at a textile warehouse. Sorting fabrics, labeling boxes, filling paperwork. The pay wasn't great, but she never complained. She never really had the luxury to. Ever since Dad died, she carried everything on her own shoulders.
Just like Aryan.
He used to stay up, waiting for her — back when he was smaller and afraid of the dark.
Now he stayed up out of habit.
They didn't talk much.
Not because they didn't care.
But because they were too alike.
She carried her grief quietly.
He carried his with fists.
And somehow, between the silence and the shared exhaustion, they made it work.
He sat on the floor beside the couch, a bowl in his hands. The TV was off. He didn't need background noise — he was used to the quiet.
As he ate, his eyes drifted to the framed photo on the wall.
His mother — younger, tired, but smiling.
His father — standing tall, stern but proud.
And himself, just seven years old, standing in front of her with wide, innocent eyes.
That was before everything cracked.
Before his father died.
Before silence moved in where laughter used to live.
He'd once offered to work part-time — carrying boxes, cleaning, anything to ease his mother's burden.
She didn't yell. She never did.
But her voice cut deeper than shouting ever could:
"Your job is school. Your job is to grow strong. Let me carry this."
She'd looked at him then — really looked.
Eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights, yet still burning with that quiet, unshakable strength.
He never brought it up again.
After finishing his meal, Aryan rolled his shoulders and dropped to the floor. He'd missed his evening training while passed out at school.
Push-ups. Slow, controlled. No counting — just movement.
He didn't know what exactly he was preparing for…
A fight?
A storm?
He just knew he couldn't afford to be weak.
---
His mother returned around 10:00 p.m., the faint creak of the door breaking the stillness.
She made dinner, even though he'd already eaten. Aryan didn't say a word — just sat back at the table and ate again.
She didn't know he'd slept six hours at school.
She didn't know about the fight.
He didn't mention the rumors probably starting all over again in a new school.
She didn't ask.
And he didn't offer.
She already knew why he had to transfer. That was enough weight on her shoulders. He couldn't let her know he'd gotten into trouble again — within just two days.
He forced a smile.
Made small talk.
And swallowed guilt with every bite.
Later, they both went to sleep.
No scolding. No lectures. No questions.
But Aryan lay awake for a long time — staring at the ceiling, overthinking like an average teenager.
The next morning, Aryan woke early, packed his bag, and left without saying much.
The stares from other students hadn't stopped completely — but no one approached him. Not after what happened to Ishaan.
Classes passed uneventfully. Teachers taught. Students whispered. Aryan kept his head down, took notes where it mattered, and zoned out where it didn't. He wasn't trying to stand out — just stay out of trouble.
At lunch, he sat alone as always — in the courtyard corner or at the back of the room — eating quietly while watching the sky through the window. He didn't try to speak to anyone. And no one tried to speak to him.
When the final bell rang, the halls filled with footsteps and chatter. Aryan stayed behind for a moment, sitting at his desk with his head low, waiting for the noise to fade so he could leave unnoticed.
As he passed the training hall on his way out, a sharp sound caught his ear.
Thump.
Thump.
The rhythmic strikes of a wooden staff against the padded floor echoed from within. The hall was nearly empty, but someone was still practicing.
Aryan paused outside the doorway, watching Meera.
She moved like someone who didn't waste motion. Every strike from her staff had intent. No unnecessary flair. No performance. Just focus.
He didn't mean to stare.
But something about the way she moved reminded him of the past — a time before the weight, before the silence.
---
"You gonna stand there all day?"
Her voice cut through the quiet.
He blinked.
Didn't realize she'd noticed him. Didn't realize she'd stopped.
She leaned the staff against the wall and wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her jacket. Her breathing was steady — trained.
She didn't look annoyed. Just… curious.
"The other day... you dropped him with a single strike. Is that how you solve things?"
He didn't answer right away.
She didn't flinch at the silence. She just relaxed her arms and waited.
Aryan: "…He came at me first."
Meera: "So you ended it with one punch?"
Aryan: "I didn't want to fight."
Meera: "Then why did it look like you'd done it a thousand times?"
That stopped him.
Because it was true.
---
Aryan stepped inside the hall slowly, his eyes avoiding hers — not out of fear, but habit.
Aryan: "I'm used to stopping things before they get worse."
She picked up the staff again, spun it once in her hand, then pointed it gently at his chest.
Meera: "And what if the worst isn't a fight?"
He didn't have an answer.
She didn't wait for one.
---
She turned away, heading toward the storage room at the back of the training hall.
Aryan watched her go — unsure if he should follow.
Unsure if he even had the right to.
But something in his chest pulled him forward.
It wasn't attraction — it was something deeper. Something older.
His steps were slow, hesitant.
The air felt heavier with every one.
And then—
---
The present blurred.
The room melted into memory — faint, but sharp in its own way.
A narrow alley.
Two children — one hiding behind the other.
The taller girl steps forward, trembling slightly, but shielding the boy behind her.
"Don't be afraid," she says. "I'll stand in front."
She didn't cry.
She didn't run.
His small hand clung to her sleeve like it was the only thread holding him together.
---
The memory faded.
But the warmth it left behind stayed with him.
He looked toward Meera, now by the lockers, her hand resting quietly on the edge of a cabinet.
Same stillness.
Same quiet strength.
The memory echoed through him, clearer than it had in years.
A name surfaced like breath breaking through water.
Meera.
Wasn't that her name…?
Yes.
Meera.
---
Aryan stepped forward, his voice quieter than usual — not out of fear, but reverence.
Aryan: "...Back then… was it really you?"
She froze.
The silence stretched just long enough to feel real.
Then, without turning around, she answered softly:
Meera: "You remember?"
He nodded once.
Aryan: "You were brave when I couldn't be."
Meera: "And now you're breaking seniors with a single punch."
Aryan: "I didn't change as much as it looks."
She finally turned to face him — eyes not soft, not angry, just clear.
Meera: "Then maybe it's time you do."
---
The sound of the janitor's keys jingling down the hallway broke their moment. She moved past him, staff resting on her shoulder.
Meera: "I'll see you tomorrow. If you're still trying not to fight."
She walked off.
And for the first time in a long time… Aryan almost smiled.
---
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But for now, silence didn't feel so heavy.
Not when someone else was willing to carry it, too.
---
[To Be Continued...]